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A low, white-washed bookstand has been placed next to one of the armchairs against the wall on the side closer to the bed.
There’s nothing but miles and miles of sand ahead. And plants. I see both since Marcus made sure the glass wall is spotless.
A sharp pain slashes through my heart at the sight.
I might consider this to be a prison. I might be confused by it.
But Marcus doesn’t see it that way. He designed this place to be a home.
This should’ve been his happy place. Ours.
I wish I could hate him. I wish I could with every fiber of my being.
I wish I could hate myself too. For kissing him back. For loving his brutality.
I wish all of this could’ve been easier. A black or white type of situation.
It isn’t.
I’ve been obsessed with him for years. Have had secret dreams where he and I were together. Happy. Where we were so in love and had babies together. They’d have Ry as their protective and adoring stepsister. She loves kids.
No matter how difficult me being with her dad would be, she’d soften once we had kids.
In my dreams, life would’ve been perfect. My heart knew Marcus was the one for me.
That’s not the case here, that much is obvious.
If only my heart would’ve been as rational. If only it didn’t hurt for the future we’d never have now.
Marcus seems to think we can make it through this.
I don’t share his optimism.
My fucking God, the man uses his words for a living. Why couldn’t he have come up with a few goddamned sentences for me?
Leighton, I have feelings for you. I’m not looking to fuck around. It’s you and me for the long haul. Let’s find a way to make it work. I’ll talk to Ry. She’ll accept our relationship.
Why? Oh, right. He’s a psycho.
Are you there, heart? Taking notes?
You fucking should.
Marcus had many opportunities to come clean. The time Rylan went out without me. When I was sick and stayed there alone with him. In the pool the other day when it was just the two of us.
Other times would’ve worked just the same. There were so many opportunities when Rylan was in the shower or talking over the phone with Milo—the phone calls I begged Milo to initiate so he’d get to know Rylan’s sweet and funny soul. Which he has, to please me. Then that bastard would hang up and text me that he’s in love with me.
But I digress.
During those moments when Rylan was occupied, Marcus could’ve called me to the side. Could’ve asked me if I was interested in him. It would’ve been painfully easy. He’s admitted to knowing I liked him.
For years, I’ve been innocent enough to believe he missed my fluttering eyelashes or the crimson creeping up my throat whenever he was around. I’d been looking the other way, so he had no way of catching me. Right?
Wrong.
Why not just ask me out?
He’s. A. Psycho.
